


Quieting Demons

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Series: Ineffable Shibari [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Lovers, M/M, Non-Sexual, Post-Canon, Romance, Rope Bondage, Shibari, just the ramblings of an ineffable bdsm expert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:40:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23301034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: When Crowley gets anxious, he cleans. After the Nada-geddon, his anxiety attacks become progressively worse. Luckily, he has an angel willing to help him through it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Shibari [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1674700
Comments: 10
Kudos: 113





	Quieting Demons

“Crowley! Dear! I’m back!” Aziraphale walks into the flat, fumbling with keys and juggling shopping bags, taking stock of the groceries he purchased while he secures the door behind him. “Call me an old silly, but I quite enjoy grocery shopping! I wish you would have come with me but no matter, no matter …” Aziraphale chuckles to himself as he heads to the kitchen. “Your absence meant I could get everything I wanted without argument. I got eclairs, that lovely Tapenade you requested, some beautiful pears, a bottle of …”

A loud, dull thud draws Aziraphale’s attention away from his purchases, lifts his gaze towards the master bedroom. He stands quietly and listens. Another thud, a wooded object hitting the far wall, and a scrape, something heavy dragged across the marble floor. These aren’t random noises by any means. Aziraphale recognizes them.

He sighs.

It’s going to be a long night.

“Dearest?” Aziraphale leaves his shopping on the kitchen floor and heads for the bedroom. “Crowley? What’s going … on …? Oh … my … goodness …”

Aziraphale takes a step through the door, but that’s as far as he goes.

It’s as far as he _can_ go.

Every piece of furniture Crowley has in that room is lined up against the wall, his king-sized bed blocking most of the entrance. Crowley’s bedroom is minimalist already, but he’s taken every book down from the bookcase, every knick-knack and picture frame down from their shelves, every article of clothing out of his closet. A colorful array of cleansers and disinfectants are gathered in the center of the room alongside sponges, a mop, and rubber gloves. Aziraphale breathes in through his nose and becomes overwhelmed by the sharp smell of bleach.

Crowley keeps his flat in museum-quality condition at all times - the fashionably unlived-in look since he didn’t live there until recently. But he cleans when he gets anxious.

When it’s really bad, he does it by hand.

This has happened hundreds of times over the past 6000 years, but in that time, Aziraphale only witnessed it once. Crowley said it was his way of coping. But ever since the Nope-ageddon … ever since the bookstore fire … these fits have become more and more frequent.

They never start when Aziraphale is there. He always walks in on them.

Crowley looks up from where he’s vigorously scrubbing a spot on the floor and catches sight of his angel standing in the doorway, barred from entry.

Crowley licks his lips nervously, then swallows hard. “I know what you’re going to say, angel.”

“I’m not sure you do,” Aziraphale says, waiting until Crowley hurries over and moves the bed, gives him permission to enter. “My dear boy! What in the world got into you?”

“Nothing!” Crowley says, wringing a cloth between both hands until Aziraphale thinks his fingers might break. “I … I … nothing, I … I just thought … ngh … I felt …”

“Crowley …” Aziraphale raises a hand to his demon’s cheek but lets it hover, giving Crowley the space to lean into it at his own speed.

Which he does with slumped shoulders and a defeated expression. “I can’t stop … hearing it.”

“Hearing what?”

“The screaming.”

“Screaming?” Aziraphale shakes his head in confusion. “What screaming?”

“I … I asked you for Holy Water. I knew what I was doing. I was fine with it. I … I’d come to terms with it. I needed to protect myself. I can’t say I don’t regret it. It shouldn’t have happened, but I … but they …” Crowley’s mouth clamps shut, the words struggling to sort themselves out on his tongue. There’s a name there with them. One he hasn’t spoken since he used that Holy Water.

Used it to protect himself from another demon.

Aziraphale isn’t entirely sure what bothers Crowley about the encounter. Aziraphale once suspected it was the stink of cowardice about the situation. Crowley didn’t launch himself at an attacking Ligur, battle them in hand-to-hand combat, and when all else failed, doused them with Holy Water as a last resort. He’d poured it into a bucket and balanced it above his door a la the most popular prank of five- through ten-year-olds ever created. Ligur pushed the door open, the bucket fell on their head, and voila - disintegration.

But being seen as a coward never seemed to bother Crowley too much. When it came to battles between him and Hell, running and hiding were his preferred options.

Being a hero is the fastest way to becoming dead according to him.

Crowley has yet to fully clarify his feelings on the matter to Aziraphale.

Today more than likely won’t be that day.

“It won’t go away,” Crowley continues in a trembling voice. “The screaming … won’t go away.”

“Oh, darling …”

“I heard it and I … I … I didn’t know what to do, angel! I didn’t know what to do! I waited for you to come home so I could ask you, but you took so long, and … and … I called you! But you don’t answer your phone!” The trembling of Crowley’s voice gets worse the more he goes on until it becomes difficult for Aziraphale to understand him. “I bought you that phone and I pay the bill but you never answer it, angel! You never …” A tear rolls down Crowley’s cheek … then another … then another … gathering at his jawline before falling and darkening his shirt. “I needed to talk to you and you never …!”

“I’m sorry.” Aziraphale takes a step closer, wrapping his arms around Crowley when the demon falls into his embrace. “I’ll answer it from now on. I promise. No excuses.”

Crowley nods, but Aziraphale’s reassurance isn’t comforting enough. “It’s not … it’s not clean, angel.” Crowley sniffles. “And I need it clean. I need to get rid of … the screaming …”

“I know, my dear,” Aziraphale whispers, hugging Crowley’s shaking body to keep him from coming apart. “I know. I understand. We’ll take care of it together. But first … let me take care of you. Okay?”

Crowley’s shoulders calm their shuddering. He picks his head up from his angel’s chest, watery eyes a brilliant jasper and filled to the brim with sorrow. “O-okay.”

***

Aziraphale puts his everything into the knots he ties.

His energy.

His serenity.

His strength.

His hope for their future.

But mostly, he puts his love for his demon. His boundless love and affection. It bleeds from his hands into every fiber of the rope. He doesn’t bless it, nor does he inject Grace, because either might hurt Crowley in ways Crowley wouldn’t appreciate. No, what Aziraphale puts into his knots is the same brand of love that humans give one another. Not a divine love, not infused into their souls at birth by a higher power without their consent, but a love that is learned over time - time that there’s never enough of. A love that carries pain, a love born from sacrifice. A love that knows toil and compromise, forgiveness and rejection. A love that longs to express itself in a multitude of ways - that sings and creates, that breathes and drinks and bakes. A love that blooms and grows and flowers - becomes mighty and sometimes strange, but bigger than itself in the end.

A love that seeds life and transcends death.

Mortal love. That’s what Aziraphale gives to Crowley.

The most beautiful love of all in Aziraphale’s humble opinion.

He ties Crowley up in red cotton, using a design that won’t cause his body any strain, won’t require much in the way of effort to keep him positioned. When he’s finished tying, he hoists Crowley up, lets him hang in the quiet and dark. He’ll give Crowley rest, give the anxiety a chance to drain from his body. And when Crowley has found peace again, Aziraphale will lower him down, undo the knots, and they’ll clean the flat together.


End file.
